If you want a friend in New York
by NPYD
Summary: [S8.] Part of him wants to turn to his side, as if Kate's still there, show her how cute it is, wheedle a little about the loft feeling quiet without Martha. And then he remembers how much quieter the loft's gotten, and that he's walking down the street with the taste of coffee in his mouth, but his stride's grown longer and slower again without her to keep his pace.


He's caught up in his thoughts as he weaves in and out of foot traffic on some anonymous street, wondering where it all went wrong and just how far back Karma has reached to deliver him to this point in his life. Was it the dishonesty in boarding school? Some girl he never called back 15 years ago? Was this the _anything_ he said he'd give, those times when he faithlessly begged whatever god was listening to bring Kate back safe and alive, those times she'd been swallowed up by the night and he was left waiting and helpless?

Or maybe, he thinks, he's just had it too good for too long. Maybe he made some unwitting deal with the devil long ago for all the things he's attributed to luck and hard work, and he'd finally lost his fiddle made of gold. Maybe this is the price he has to pay for seven mostly good years, for a taste of true happiness and unconditional love, for his daughter's love and happiness and inner goodness that god knows she didn't inherit from either him or Meredith. For the repaired relationship with his mother, for the genuine and guileless friendships he's made at last after a lifetime of users and losers.

He'd do it all again. Better to have loved and…

Castle smiles grimly, or does his best impression of a smile, as he's not sure the real thing is in his emotional vocabulary. He did ask for her to come home. He supposes he ought to have been more specific - coming to his house to pick up her things was not what he had in mind. A month ago it was an overnight bag, but trips here and there (mostly conveniently timed when only Alexis was home) has seen more and more of her things migrate out. Defiantly, he's hidden the seashell frame in the bottom of a box of his memories. She's not taking that. She can try to erase herself from his home by removing all the things that came with her from her old apartment, erase him from her life by kicking him off cases and blackballing him out of even Ryan and Esposito's life, but she's not taking evidence that's half his. He replaced it with Linus again for the time being, though he's considering a series of blown-up Derrick Storm comic book cover art.

Today, he's left pre-emptively, killed a few hours to give her time to grab her things so she doesn't have to see him and he doesn't have to watch her leave again. He had no destination, setting out, and he finds himself in an unfamiliar area of town, he thinks somewhere in the Flatiron.

"Sir!" a young man with dozens of watches leaps in front of him, forcing Castle to step aside to avoid collision, "would you like to buy Rolex? $1,000! Come on, you a classy man, how about this one?"

Wordlessly stepping around him, he realizes looking ahead that he's found his way onto an illegal street market. In his younger days, this would have provided quite a few opportunities for entertainment, but a cloud of irritation follows him today, put out by the very notion that they would try to sell him stolen property or knock offs. He considers taking the fast-talking teenager shouting, 'find the lady! Find the lady! Dollar to play, find the lady!' for all he's worth, but it'd hold no joy and really, he has no use for the money.

"Border collie! Border collies for sale!" two young boys crow, struggling to hold up a heavy, wriggling box, "purebred Border collie, $100!"

Castle peers down into the box. Purebred, his ass. He may never have had a dog before – besides temporary partial custody – but he can tell these are no purebreds. In fact, he questions if one is even all dog. The tan puppy looks marginally older, and suspiciously like a coyote. Or so he assumes, having never actually seen a coyote. The black one with tan and white markings looks closer to the advertised product.

"Border collie, you say?" he toys with the kids, who smile delightedly at his interest, "border crossing, maybe. Don't think this one," he nods to the tan puppy, "comes from anywhere near Scotland."

"Huh?" the older boy exclaims, looking to the younger for an explanation. The younger shrugs.

"Never mind," Castle breezes, not sure why it surprises him that kids out on a Monday morning hawking mutts on the street don't have an especially solid grasp on geography. He nearly walks away with a last look in the box, at the big brown eyes of the darker, smaller puppy. Suddenly, he feels like crying again, watching the two dogs tussle in the confines of the box, and tears well up in his eyes the way they've been doing uncomfortably often, for no specific reason besides the loneliness that never leaves any more.

He picks the darker puppy up, rescuing – he checks – _her_ from the coyote-puppy's assault on her ear and giving his first genuine smile in days as she curls into the crook of his arm. She's pitiful and cute and if he were in a better state, he'd know that she was already furiously digging her way into his heart, as small, helpless things tend to. Part of him wants to turn to his side, as if Kate's still there, show her how cute it is, wheedle a little about the loft feeling quiet without Martha. And then he remembers how much quieter the loft's gotten, and that he's walking down the street with the taste of coffee in his mouth, but his stride's grown longer and slower again without her to keep his pace. They hadn't discussed it much – maybe he should have? – but he'd always thought they'd end up with a dog years down, if they had children, a capstone on the life they'd forge together rather than an impulse purchase out of desperation for companionship.

Dogs are man's best friend, he's heard. Dogs won't just stop loving you, get up and leave, and edit themselves out of your life. They're uncomplicated. They're a small family tragedy waiting to happen, cursed with pure and unselfish love in exchange for pitifully short lives, but maybe it's an acceptable tradeoff. Ten good years? Fifteen, if you're lucky? What's that, compared to the human ratio of good to bad? He almost envies the puppy.

"Mister, are you okay?" the younger kid asks. Castle nods, sure he must look like a mess or a crazy person with tears running down his face apropos of nothing and smiling at the same time. It's a dumb idea to buy a puppy from two kids on the street. Hell, it's a dumb idea to take in a dog at all in such an emotional state, he knows that. But somehow he finds himself fishing his wallet out of his jacket, as if on autopilot.

"$100?"

The older boy glances at his wallet and sizes up his clothes, eyes him as if assessing his mental state and thus what he'd pay to take the dog.

"For you? $200."

"You little scam artist," he says brightly, annoyance overridden by amusement and even a slight amount of pride in the youth's crude profiling skills. "Done," he pulls out two crisp bills, and then adds in a $50. "Go to school tomorrow," he orders as an afterthought.

"Yes, SIR!" the boys answer in unison, trotting back to the 80's Suburban where a woman – he presumes their mother – counts out the money and motions for them to pack up. Coyote-puppy, he guesses, will have to wait another day for a family.

Castle holds the squirming black mass of fur, wondering what the hell has just happened and how he set out for a good head-clearing walk and wound up with a new member of his depressingly-shrinking family. Puppies have mind control, obviously.

"Are you an alien?" he intones, and the creature perks up at the sound of his voice, cocking her head in confusion. "Nah, you're just a good ol' mutt, aren't you?"

She shivers and whines, and he tucks the four-pound ball of thick, soft fur into his jacket before producing his smartphone and looking for the vet closest to the loft, turning back the way he came. She's bright and healthy, if a little dirty, and while he's sure she's got parasites, the vet can wait for tomorrow. More immediate needs can be taken care of at a pet supply store. He'll need food, of course. A bed. Toys, he assumes puppies like toys. A gate, to keep her off the glass staircase where she could fall through. A collar, leash, and… well, a name.

His lips curl up at the thought as he strides off with purpose renewed in his step, tinged with a small amount of the same defiance that spurred him to bring Linus back to the bedroom. He can do whatever he wants. He can name her Paddywagon Pustule if he wants. But he's not cruel. The Castle family dog needs a dignified, unusual name. She's certainly not going to be a Princess, a Lady, or even a Bella (the moniker given to at least two different yapping dropkicks in his building has left a bad taste in his mouth). Definitely not a DeeOhGee. Cosmo, well, that ship has long since sailed and this is a little girl, in need of a pretty little girl name. But maybe he can still get his way after all.

"Cosima?" he tries the name out. It's a big name for such a raggedy little thing, but he's certain she'll grow into it. "Yeah," he reaches into his coat, peering at her and scratching the light fur under her chin. "Yeah, Cosima."

Buttoning his jacket a bit tighter to keep out the autumn chill, he marches into the first pet store he sees, buoyed by the attention of strangers fawning over his newly-acquired family member and surprised at how eager he is to show her off. A chipper clerk advises him on the best food, appropriate toys, training pads, a small crate and bed, and manages to talk him into a puppy training class series as well. He's not sure how hard training a puppy is supposed to be, or why it needs a class, but at the very least it'll teach little Cosima the basics and give him a reason to leave the loft twice a week that doesn't involve further depressing himself with trying to reach Beckett. Maybe she can even be his sidekick. A good P.I. needs a sidekick, and Alexis has readily moved out of that role and straight into one all her own.

He lets her onto the floor, tiny matching harness and leash tethering her to him while he waits for the machine to print her name and his address and phone number onto the little heart-shaped tag he's selected. Cosima Castle. He likes the alliteration, the sound of it on his tongue.

Checking out and letting her take care of business on the grass outside the store, Castle starts home, picking Cosima up and ducking into a storefront to hold her up like Simba in the Lion King.

"Well," he tells her, chuckling lightly to himself as she wriggles her tiny legs and licks him in the face, her breath sweet and tinged with the smell of bacon, courtesy of the treats he'd acquired. "Life's just gotten a lot more interesting for both of us, hasn't it?"

She blinks her wide chocolate eyes at him, utterly trusting, and his heart melts a little more.

"Come on," he sputters, feigning outrage as she licks at his nose and ears, "let's get you home."

Maybe it's time he moved on again, picked himself up and tried to let Kate go. It wouldn't be the first time. He just hopes it's the last.

* * *

"It's water, baby girl," he coos, one hand trying to steady the squirming puppy - who's near doubled in size in just a few weeks - and the other busy gently scooping water onto her body, wetting her downy fur to wash out the shampoo and making her look like a drowned rat, "I promise it's not battery acid."

Castle laughs heartily at the pitiful, momentarily-hateful look the puppy gives him, how serious she appears and how spectacularly it fails to come off as threatening.

The loft hums again these days, a different tune of tug-o-war games, gentle training, games of chase with Alexis, and even music that isn't, for once, a loop of The Cure's greatest hits. Laughter is working its way back into his life. So, too, is surprise, delight, fun. Even Alexis – previously doing a good deal of sulking of her own – has seen a lift in spirits, once she was finished scolding him for impulsively acquiring an animal. And even that was a half-hearted scolding.

The doorbell rings and his heart plummets to the region of his knees. Beckett was supposed to come by again today, wasn't she? Ordinarily he'd be sitting in the living room, staring at the door and waiting. Being busy made him forget. She made him happy, if only for a little while. That's… a start, he supposes.

"Coming," he calls over his shoulder, cursing as Cosima thrashes in the water and sloshes it all over the front of his shirt. He wraps his sidekick in the absurd Nebula 9 themed dishtowel Kate hasn't yet repossessed and carries her football-style to the front door.

Kate's come with garbage bags each time, filling them with pieces of their life together and carting them off into the unknown. A few things have ended up in her office. Most, he has no idea. She won't tell him where she's living, and his efforts have all failed to track her down himself. Not even a call to an old contact in the CIA produced any information.

But today it's different. Her bags are already full. She's dropped them at his front door, standing among a colony of her things and looking intensely exhausted, too thin, her shoulders drooping and her face streaked black where her makeup's run.

"Kate?" he tries, not sure what to say, uncertain what cruel joke might be playing before him. Maybe she's going on the run for real. Maybe she wants him to store her stuff. He won't allow himself believe the best. He tried that. It hurt.

"Cas—oh," the puppy yaps indignantly, disliking being swaddled in a dishtowel while still wet, "I didn't realize you were babysitting."

"I'm not," Castle says coolly, impressed with himself for keeping his voice steady and casual. "She's mine." He emphasizes the last word. She is _his._ He picked her out, he brought her home, he named her, he's the one raising her, and she has absolutely nothing to do with Beckett.

"Oh," she chirps, eyes fixed on Cosima. "You got a puppy?"

"Excellent detective work," he mutters. "Something you need?"

Beckett steps across the threshold, forcing him back a step, and instinctively he puts the closest object – or creature, as it may be – at hand between them. Oh no. Not again, not again. He can't go through this again. He's just starting to get better, just starting to find joy again. He knows what word's about to come out of her pouting mouth, he can see it flashing in her eyes like years before. If she says it, he's done for.

Cradling his cheek with her hand, she steps forward, uncaring that he's all wet and that there's a writhing dog between them. The familiar love in her touch burns him, and Castle tries to shy away.

"You," she proclaims. "I'm done. I quit." They've had this conversation before. "I want you." She said that then, too. She squats down, eye level with the curious puppy. "Both of you. All of you," she adds, evidently including Alexis and Martha in absentia.

The bigger part of him wants to drag her into his arms, help her move her things in, and tell her everything's alright. He draws on his last reserve of strength—and doesn't.

"Cosima needs outside," he evades, stepping backwards and grabbing her purple-speckled leash off the hook by the door. "Why don't we take a walk?"

For a moment, Beckett stands up again, looks like she's about to protest, but he shoots her a steely glare he didn't know he had in him that seems to make her think better of it. She softens a bit, not approaching him again and giving a friendly scratch to the dog as a peace offering. In movies, dogs are always good judges of character. Maybe it's a sign, then, that she licks the detective's fingers. Then again, it might be a sign that Beckett's eaten Chinese food recently. Who knows.

"I'd like that," she concedes, and he tentatively sets the pup on the floor. Cosima trots happily down the hall as if she owns the place already, giving a clumsy shake to divest herself of any remaining water from her bath and skittering around at the limit her leash allows. Beckett falls into step beside him, and he tells her cautiously about how he came upon a couple of kids and a box of puppies in the street.

* * *

 _ **Tumblr prompt:** Castle bought a dog, because he doesn't want to be alone in the loft. season 8_

 _Not much, but it's the first thing I've managed to finish in a month. As far as this diabeetus-inducing piece, you can thank (or curse) my lapwarmer, Quill. Wholly insincere apologies to non-dog people ;)_

 _Title comes from the famous Harry S. Truman quote, "If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog."_


End file.
